


All These Twisted Thoughts I See

by ab2fsycho



Series: Revolve [12]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Anxiety Issues, Don't Judge Me, M/M, MAJOR PTSD TRIGGERS AND THINGS OF THAT NATURE, THINGS THAT MIGHT UPSET OR SET SOMEONE OFF, anyway, i also forgot to remind you, i forgot to say it in the last post so i'll remind you now, i'm still ignoring vital info, on a serious note, run away demon hunters, this is so full of spoilers is smells like sulphur, thought you oughta know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 13:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2152338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ab2fsycho/pseuds/ab2fsycho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Descole is on the road to recovery, Layton is battling certain inner feelings, someone has a mental breakdown, and Flora is close to being done with everyone's crap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All These Twisted Thoughts I See

**Author's Note:**

> BEFORE YOU GO ON!
> 
> Remember that this is one of two updates today. Make sure you read the other one first.

Descole felt heavy. He felt ill and weighted to the mattress and why was it so damned hot in here. He tried to move, but he felt pinned. He tried putting his whole body into the movement, but that only brought pain. The heat and the heaviness was unbearable and he wasn't entirely sure he was whimpering or he was just so uncomfortable that every thought felt and sounded like a scream within his head.

It wasn't until he was fully awake that he realized why he felt so heavy: he wasn't alone in the bed. Had he not already experienced just how terrible the cost of sudden movements were, he might have tried to jump up and run. Eyes wide, he glimpsed the hand of the individual in question. It was . . . it was Layton.

Descole's heart started pounding as he became aware of every last part of him that Layton was touching. Fortunately the arm was placed on one of the few regions of his side that was not marked by the gash, so that had not caused him any discomfort. Well, not that he wasn't incredibly uncomfortable now. He was shivering uncontrollably and hotter than hell and all he wanted to do was get away from Layton because this was the absolute last position either of them should be in. He found himself trying desperately to block out particular memories involving this man and this bed, but he was having a rather difficult time. One by one, five nails drove themselves into his chest and there was nothing he could do to stop the agony they invoked.

Trying to speak, he found that he couldn't. His throat simply would not allow him. All that came out was a disappointing squeak. For lack of anything else to do, he found himself wondering just how they'd come to be in this situation. Layton had been rather tired earlier. Perhaps he'd walked in here and collapsed without realizing. That seemed likely. And Layton had always been clingy in his sleep. The very idea was enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut in an attempt to banish the thought, but it only made it easier to listen to Layton's breathing and that was too much to bear.

On the bright side, he hadn't had any nightmares. Now, if only he could stop the sweating and fever.

Balling his fist, he felt dreadful for what he was about to do. With all the strength he could muster, he elbowed the man in the stomach. The professor came awake with a surprised cry. Descole gave him a few moments to understand the scenario they'd been placed in. When the realization finally dawned on him, it came in the form of, “Oh dear,” to which Descole replied with an agitated grunt. “I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—”

“Just get off me,” Descole managed, though it came out as little more than a scratchy whisper.

Layton did so without hesitation, and while Descole was relieved to no longer be smothered by the professor's body heat he also felt another nail forming in his chest as Layton's absence sank in. Coming to stand on the opposite side of the bed, Layton placed a hand on Descole's forehead. It took everything Descole had not to pull away from the touch. When Layton addressed him, he was on the verge of shouting again despite his condition. “You're on fire.” He certainly felt like it. “I'll be right back.”

Descole almost told him not to rush, but couldn't bring himself to speak again. All he seemed capable of doing was clutching his own arms in hopes of stopping the shivering. He could no longer tell if the shivering was due to the sickness or finding himself trapped with Layton again.

:)

Layton went to the medicine cabinet. Staring at the clock, he couldn't believe what time it was. On the table was some food that Flora had likely left out for him and Descole. He shook his head, grabbing the medicine and pouring a glass of water for Descole. Staring at the takeout, he thought perhaps he should heat that up as well and at least offer it to their guest.

When he'd plated the food and started the oven, he took a moment to rub his face. Just how tired was he that he'd forgotten his bed was occupied and fell asleep in it all the same? The scenario would have sounded ridiculous had he not just experienced it. He wouldn't feel so horrible if his chest would stop acting like it was going to explode over the memories this evoked. Jesus, he needed to get himself together. Inhaling and exhaling deeply a few times, he finally turned back to the living room. He wasn't expecting to find Flora standing there with her arms crossed. “You said you were friends,” she said.

The way she said it sounded like a confrontation, and Layton wasn't positive he was in the right mindset to deal with that. “Yes, we were—”

“If by friends you mean lovers, I might believe you.”

Layton sighed. She seen it. There was no doubt in his mind. “We were never—”

“Are you sure? Because everything you've done has made you seem like a disgruntled ex-lover, and what I just saw helps fit the profile even more.”

He did not have the energy to do this. “Flora—”

There was no stopping her. “Don't deny it. I may have . . . I may have lived in a village full of robots most of my life, but even I can see that. I'm not dumb, you know.”

“I never said you were dumb. If anything, you're far too clever for your own good. Can we please discuss this later?”

Flora paused, as if considering that this really may not be the time to discuss such a delicate topic. When she responded, she was crestfallen. “I'll finish heating up the food. Go check on him.”

She stepped past him, brushing him aside in a way that told him he'd upset her. He wanted to say something. He truly did. But what, he had no idea. Instead of deliberating on the topic any longer, he continued to the bedroom. When he returned, Descole was curling in on himself and wouldn't look at him. Instead of trying to hand him the water and pills, he set them on the nightstand and took his usual seat by the bed. His hands forming a steeple at his chin and mouth, he struggled with what he was supposed to say or if he should say anything at all. From the look of it, Descole would rather not discuss it. However, he couldn't help but feel the need to apologize again. Just as with Flora, though, the words would not come out. He simply could not think of what to say.

He was glad when Descole uttered something first. It meant he wouldn't have to think of something to say. “You don't think the fever's related to the injury, do you?” His voice was harsh and quiet, his throat very clearly the source of his conflict with speaking.

What an odd time for him to start caring about the connection of his illness to the wound. The professor supposed it was a fitting divergence from the actual problem at hand. “When I checked your gash, it showed no signs of infection. It was hotter than the rest of your body temperature, but there is a lot of blood rushing through that region. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

Descole nodded, accepting the answer. Reaching for the pills, he took them without complaint. He sat up a little to drink the water, then almost choked on the first gulp. Drawing back to catch his breath, he struggled to breathe. In fact, his breathing almost sounded like wheezing. He tried to drink again, this time he was more successful and prepared for the discomfort. Layton wished he could help more, somehow, because it was hard to be frustrated with someone who was having a hard time inhaling. He still wanted to be frustrated with him, but couldn't bring himself to feel it at the moment.

A small tap at the door got their attention. After about a second, Flora came in with a tray of the takeout for both of them. “I'm making tea, too. Might help with the coughing.”

Layton took the tray from her as both men thanked her. Picking up one plate and setting it aside for himself, he waited as Descole fought to sit up. When the man had finally adjusted himself, Layton set the tray in front of him. There was a whistle that came from the kitchen, which drew Flora's attention back to the tea. “Make sure the oven's off,” Layton called after her.

“Has she had problems with the oven before?” Descole asked, hesitating to start eating.

“Cleaning she's good at. Cooking, not so much. She tries, but the results are usually terrifying.”

Descole smirked. Picking up a fork, he stabbed at his food before settling on a particular piece. Chewing seemed to take longer for him, but at least he wasn't arguing this time. His cooperation made it easier for Layton to eat as well because he wasn't worrying about what Descole was or wasn't doing. Layton quietly berated himself for using the term 'worry,' even though it had only been in his head. He wasn't worried. He couldn't be worried. That would mean he—

“Earl grey for you,” Flora interrupted his train of thought as she set his cup of tea beside him. She placed another in front of Descole. “This is spicy chai. Hopefully it helps the throat and sinuses.”

“Thank you,” he responded, picking up the tea gratefully.

When Flora left, Layton felt himself about to make a comment on their relational development. He tried to stop himself, but by the time he thought to the sentence was already halfway out. “Perhaps I should put her in charge of your health and maintenance. You seem to be getting on well.”

He could feel Descole rolling his eyes at him. With both hands on the mug of tea, Descole managed steadying his shaking his hands. He muttered, “She's easier to talk to.”

“She hasn't yet had the opportunity to experience how outlandish you can be.”

There was a little too much sarcasm in his comment, and he wasn't surprised when Descole caught onto it. He was, however, surprised at his response. “Perhaps I'll kidnap her when this is over and done with.”

“Excuse me?”

“She seems to develop good relationships with her kidnappers.”

Layton stiffened. “You've been talking to her about Paul.”

“And this Clive person. What charmers you two have come to be acquainted with.”

Layton sighed. “I'm surprised she mentioned Clive. She thinks I don't know she sneaks out to see him, but her disguises are quite terrible.”

Descole's eyebrows raised as he blew across the surface of the tea and sipped. When he spoke, his voice was much clearer. “Your ability to see through disguises has improved? I'm impressed.”

“I've always been able to see through—”

“Don't finish that thought. You'd be lying to yourself.”

Layton glared. “I saw through all of your disguises.”

“All but the most important one.”

“Yes, the one where you were actually being truthful.”

A weighty silence fell between them, and Descole went right back to not looking at him. They continued eating without speaking. Oddly, Layton was more comfortable being on antagonistic terms with his guest. It was much better than wondering why he bothered to care for someone who was just going to leave again.

:)

“Stop helping me.”

“You almost tripped and fell on your face.”

“But I didn't. Now stop—”

“You're going to hurt yours—”

“—I can do this on my—”

“—and how do you intend to reach—”

“—just let me do this one thing by—”

“Descole—”

“If you don't get out right this instant, I swear to all that's holy I am going to stab you!”

“You tried that once. It didn't work.”

“I'll do it again!” He leaned on the sink, trying to regain the energy that had encouraged him to get out of bed and make his way to the shower on his own in the first place. Layton was hovering, and that wasn't helping in the slightest. In fact, Layton had been hovering the whole time he'd been out of work. Didn't he have something else better to do? Apparently not.

Descole's throat and fever had calmed down over the course of the five nights he'd been here, but he still wasn't wholly himself. The wound was closing, at least, and no nightmares had been bad enough to make him toss and turn and reopen it. Moving was difficult, but at least he didn't have the illness keeping him weak and vulnerable. Granted, he was still physically weak from being sick but he wasn't quite so resistant to moving as he had been. Walking didn't require as much help as before. He allotted this to the fact that almost all of his bruises and aches had almost completely disappeared, leaving only the gash. He had managed to keep himself clean up until now, and he was just dying for a hot shower. He just needed to convince Layton that he didn't need a monitor. 

“What if you fall?”

“Jesus, I'm not an old man. And if I fall, you'll hear it. You don't need to stand in here with me.” He tried very hard not to think of how awkward the phrasing of that sentence was.

Layton glared a glare that Descole was beginning to believe the professor reserved just for him. After a moment's deliberation, he finally nodded. Turning to leave, he said, “If I hear anything suspicious, I'm coming in.”

“If by suspicious you mean I might have broken something, I'll try to find it in my heart to forgive you.” Layton closed the door behind him, and Descole was suddenly alone with himself. He wasn't sure if the sigh he released was one of relief or one of nervousness. Turning his attention to his goal he began undressing. Accomplishing this without stretching too much to irritate the sutures took some doing. The only thing more intimidating was the thought of removing the gauze from the gash on his own. Once he was topless and could see the gauze, he sighed again. “This ought to be fun,” he muttered aloud. He started at the portion of the wound closest to his hipbone and moved all the way up. It wasn't until he reached the part on his upper back that he had difficulty. It would have been easier if he'd just asked for help, but he needed to do this on his own. He needed to feel like he didn't need anyone anymore.

After much struggling, he managed to remove the last of the gauze. Continuing to undress, he looked around the bathroom and tried to memorize his surroundings before removing the mask. He tried not to think about it as taking off the mask, because the thought made him panic. Instead, he thought of it as putting on a different mask, a lighter one. Perhaps he was just covering the top half of his face with a cloth he couldn't quite see through. The image actually helped soothe his nerves. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, he closed his eyes. With a quivering hand, he removed the mask and prepared to meet blindness. When he opened his eyes, the world up close was blurry and nothing in the bathroom was far enough away for him to see. He blinked several times, as he so often did when trying to clear his vision. Somehow his eyes never fully accepted their inability to see certain things. Sternly avoiding the mirror he proceeded with his mission. At first when the warm water hit his skin it was shocking and aching. The more he stood there, however, the better it felt. Even the wound felt less irritating as he leaned his hands on the wall and let himself soak for a moment.

The rest of the shower was uneventful save for the few times he dropped the soap. Finding the soap again after dropping it was harder than he'd like to admit, and no amount of squinting tended to help his vision. When he was finally finished, he wouldn't have been surprised if steam was rising off his skin. But damn that had felt good and refreshing. If he wasn't careful, he might forget he was still technically ill and healing and do something drastic.

Grabbing a towel, he tried drying his hair first. He quickly got annoyed as it began to puff up. The more he dried, the bigger his hair seemed to get. He huffed as he gave up on that endeavor, instead toweling off the rest of himself. Tying the towel around his waist and making his way to the sink, he went to grab his mask when— “Shit!” He overreached and knocked them off the counter-top. The panic returned as he got on his knees, feeling around the floor for it. He didn't come in contact with it immediately, which only fueled his panic. “Oh God. Oh no,” he sputtered as he reached out for the mask. He stretched incorrectly, a searing pain shooting through his injury. Crying out, he stood up too quickly and hit his head on a light fixture just above the mirror. In rapid succession, a bulb blew out from the impact, the injury made him double over the sink, and he caught sight of himself in a portion of the mirror that wasn't fogged. The combination of a bright light flashing in his eyes, his wound reminding him where he was, and seeing a blurred version of his own red gaze in the mirror all froze him solid. He wanted to scream. He wanted to punch the face in the mirror. He wanted his mask. Horror prevented him from doing any of these things.

He watched his mouth fall open and close and fall open again. Though the light had since blew out, the brightness still lingered with him and he was beginning to become blinder. The sensation froze him, made him shiver with cold despite the steam in the room. Something escaped his lips, though he wasn't quite sure what the noise was or if it was even human. He blinked once, twice, three times before he realized his vision was not clearing but instead getting worse. He tried to . . . tried to . . . .

Everything went black.

:)

Layton was preparing lunch when he heard something heavy hit the floor. It took him approximately two seconds to turn off everything he was using and run to the bathroom. Without knocking, he went ahead and opened the door. The door opened just enough for Layton to look inside and see that Descole was passed out on the floor. The professor's insides ceased to function as he pushed his way into the space, the other man's legs obstructing the door. Once inside, he knelt by the man and grabbed his upper arms. “Descole?” He shook the man a bit. No response. “Des?” It was hard determining what to call him when the mask was off. Inspecting the man's physical status, he couldn't see any possible way for him to have hit his head hard enough to receive a concussion or break his neck. There was no gash on his head that he could see and the man was still breathing. He was just wondering how he was going to possibly move Des when he spotted the mask: it had fallen behind the toilet. Scooping it up, he brushed it off and wiped the lenses before immediately placing it on Des's face on the off-chance he might wake up and have another panic without it.

Glad Descole had at least covered himself with a towel before . . . whatever had happened happened, Layton slid one arm under his head and shoulders and the other under his knees before lifting him off the floor. Careful not to agitate the sutures, which on the fortunate side were mending the wound and had not been disturbed, he stepped into the hallway and was nearly to the bedroom when Flora emerged from her room. “What happened?”

“He collapsed. Other than that, I'm not sure.” Before stepping fully into the bedroom, he told her, “I need gauze and medical tape if you don't mind.”

She complied as Layton proceeded to place Descole on his side in the bed. Electing to just cover him with the blankets as he was, he propped the man's head up with pillows. Double-checking the back of his head for injuries, he found nothing visible. When Flora arrived with the materials, he began covering Descole's wound. It would save the man the hassle once he woke up. No sooner than when he was halfway done with the gauze did Descole come awake with a gasp. His fist flew forward, narrowly missing Layton's side. He was about to throw another punch when he lost his balance. Clumsily rolling onto his stomach, Layton quickly stood up and pinned Descole's hands to the bed before he started swinging again. There was a sharp intake of breath before he started growling and twisting. “Let me go!”

“Stop moving!”

He only thrashed more. “Let go!”

“You're going to reopen your wounds!”

His hands balled up in the sheets as he stopped fighting. He didn't stop protesting, though, “Let me go. Please.”

Layton loosened his grip, recognizing the crack in Descole's voice. When the man was finally still enough that Layton felt comfortable to let him go, saltwater was leaking from under the mask. The professor glimpsed the tears just before Descole covered his face with both arms. His attempts at concealing the sobs only made them more obvious.

Until now, Flora had been standing in the doorway watching the event unfold. With Descole like this, though, she felt compelled to stand on the opposite side of the bed. As she crawled into the bed beside the older man, Layton realized what she was doing. He'd done this with Luke many times after all. Rubbing the part of his back that wasn't injured, she started humming a tune the professor didn't know. As she rubbed circles into Descole's shoulder, the man quieted enough that Layton felt safe to resume bandaging the rest of his wound. By the time Layton was finished, Flora was flattening out the man's reddish-brown hair and combing it with her fingers while he remained unresponsive. She looked up to the professor and whispered, “You get lunch. I've got him.”

“You're sure?”

She nodded. “Let's not pretend you're any better at comforting than I am.”

He wasn't going to argue with that, so he listened to her and went about his business. It was easier to do that than to watch someone he was used to arguing with have a post-traumatic episode.

:)

Descole wasn't fully aware of himself even after coming to. Though he could see again, the world was still hazy to him. He didn't move from his face-down position until he was sure the professor was no longer present. Even with him gone, Flora was still there straightening his hair with her fingers. When she saw him stir, she asked, “Are you okay?”

He wasn't ready to respond. Not with his throat raw, eyes and lids red and sore, and his injury and head aching. He didn't even want to think about the daggers in his chest at the moment. The most he could manage in response was to shake his head 'no.' Pulling a pillow from under his head, he squeezed it to his chest in an attempt to placate the pain growing there. He tried not to recall the light and mirror and the things that had set him off, but all he succeeded in doing was circling around the issue. Circling it only highlighted it and made him relive everything he didn't want to relive. Days, months, years of memories he'd tried hard to forget the significance of flooded every corner of his mind, and the circling only turned it into a whirlpool. He squeezed his eyes shut again, but that did nothing but make him feel like he was actually spinning. While Flora went back to rubbing circles into his back, the whirlpool slowed to match the circles her hand created and he tried and failed not to think of the one thing he wanted most. He knew damn well he couldn't have it, that it wasn't even acceptable for him to want it.

Because no matter how much he wanted to deny it, the one thing he wanted was to wake up beside Layton again. And that was killing him.


End file.
